Downhill Skiing, My Olympic Event

Downhill Skiing, My Olympic Event     Len Wilson

With all the ongoing excitement about the Winter Olympics that were held in Vancouver and Whistler in February 2010, it brought to mind my brief foray into the sport of downhill skiing. It all began back in the spring of ’93 when the company I worked for announced that they were arranging a ski weekend at Whistler for all employees. I had never been to Whistler, and had never strapped on skis, but not wanting to miss out on anything, I quickly signed up to go.

The following week, no matter where I went in the plant, I continuously heard stories about previous glories on the slopes. I knew to keep from being embarrassed; I had to at least have some idea of what to do. I grabbed the telephone and called my brother. As a teenager he had got involved in skiing, and still took his family every chance he could. I explained my situation, and he assured me that he could help. We arranged to go up to Mount Seymour where he could show me the rudiments.

He put on his boots while I went to the rental station where they fit me with boots, skis and poles. I clumped outside where I met my brother, and he showed me how to slush along as we made our way to the chair-lift; a continuous running cable apparatus with bicycle seat-like platforms. I struggled my way on to one, and it dragged me up the mountain. After a few rudimentary lessons, my brother sent me on my way. My first few times were quite forgettable, but all that afternoon I practiced.  I swooshed down the slope numerous times; each time gaining more confidence. Finally, I was able to make a turn at the bottom, and come to a complete stop still in a vertical position like a real pro instead of flat on my face or backside. The day did have to end, and disappointed, I joined my brother feeling quite light on my feet after removing the huge alien boots. I have to admit that I was feeling quite proud of myself and sure that I would have no problem up at Whistler. On the drive home, my brother tried to talk to me about lessons, but I was so excited, I hardly gave him a chance to say anything.

The night before I was to leave for Whistler, my brother telephoned to explain that the ‘bunny hill’ at Mt. Seymour was just a practice area, and that I should spend a few more hours on it before trying a real mountain. He wanted to take me up one more time, but when I told him that we were leaving right after work the next day, he said, “Len, I suggest that you see about lessons when you get to Whistler.” I told him that I felt confident, and since no one else at work had spoke about lessons, I didn’t want to be the only wimp so I thanked him for his advice and said with bravado that I thought I would do all right.

The next day arrangements were made to car pool, and after a quick shave and a shower, I picked up two other fellows. It was a pleasant evening when we left Surrey, but by the time we went through West Vancouver, gusting wind rocked my Aerostar, and driving rain made for poor visibility. I had heard the many stories of the beautiful scenery along the stretch of road known as the ‘Sea to Sky Highway’, but that April evening in 1993 most of what I saw was a treacherous, weaving, twisting, shining black ribbon lit up by an advancing stream of bright headlights. After a sign announcing Britannia Beach, I did catch a glimpse of rolling whitecaps to my left and a huge monstrous dump truck on my right, but I saw little else. I saw signs for Squamish, Brandywine Falls, and Shannon Falls, but I didn’t see any of the well-recorded scenery. 

Six miles from Whistler Village we came to our destination, a dimly lit stretch of road known as Creekside, which appeared to me be nothing more than a Husky Service Station. I was directed to turn left just past the service station, and a few blocks down that street, told to turn into a driveway. We grabbed our gear out of the back of the van and made our way to a dim unprotected light bulb over a door in what appeared to be a two story building. The door was thrown open and we were ordered to drop our things and were handed ice cold Canadians. 

The next morning I woke to a land shrouded in dense fog, and made out very little as I joined my companions heading to a place called the Southside Deli. This place I was told had been one of the original establishments in the area and was the best place to have breakfast. The place was packed, and I joined my companions in the line-up on the opposite side of a counter to where two rather large young men took the orders, the cash and did the cooking. Over the steady hum of excited skiers, was the sound of kitchen utensils being roughly handled, the musical clink of silverware and dishes, but all this was nothing compared to the sound of the two young men’s loud voices. It was non-stop. “Who’s next?” “What’s your order?” You’re too slow, next!” “Eggs Benny, get your ass up here!” “Scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and toast! Come on, I haven’t got all day!” 

I gulped as I watched and listened. I studied the menu, and memorized my order as I worked my way to the front of the line. A fellow at the front of the line ordered the ‘Big Man’s Omelette’, but without the mushrooms. The cook gave him a withering look, but yelled out, “One Big man without much room,” and took the fellow’s money. 

As I waited my turn, I watched the two men work. It was like a well choreographed dance. They somehow worked over the hot griddle not once interfering with the other as they prepared gigantic meals served on huge china oval-shaped platters. 

One of the cooks yelled, “Big Man’s Omelette!” and the fellow rushed forward and got his platter of food. The cook came over and took my order. I was just paying when the fellow came back to the counter and said, “Excuse me, but I asked for no mushrooms.”A sudden hush came over the building as the young man gave the fellow another withering look. He finished counting out my change, and then reached over and grabbed the plate out of the fellow’s hand and yelled, “You don’t want mushrooms, you don’t get mushrooms,” and tossed the food still on the platter into the garbage can. The fellow’s face lost all colour as he stood there seemingly not knowing which way to turn, as the young man went back to work as calm as if nothing had happened.  

I received my plate of food, and searched for a place to sit. No one stood to eat their meals, but finding a place to sit was a challenge. I managed to squeeze into a booth with some of my companions when one of the strangers sitting with them left. I could see that not much time was wasted on small talk, we were there to eat and eat we did. However, I did look up to see a strange picture on the wall. It was a picture of a rather hardy group of people, men and women ready for skiing with boots, skis and poles, but without a stitch of clothing. 

Meal over, I returned outside to a bright sunny day. I stepped off the porch and looking across the highway, I whispered, “Oh my God! It’s Mt. Baker!” From a low building with a bright red steel roof, a chair-lift climbed what appeared to be a straight vertical wall of snow. My eyes followed the line of chairs up to where they disappeared into the receding mist. My brother’s advice about lessons came rushing back. We already had our lift tickets so I tagged along as everyone in a state of euphoria rushed over to hit the slopes. 

I went and rented my equipment, and then went to find out where I should sign up for lessons, only to find out if I wanted lessons, I had to go into Whistler for them, but had already missed the morning session. I was wandering around wondering what I should do, when Steve Adams one of my fellow workers found me. He convinced me that I didn’t need lessons, and assured me that he could show me what to do. We went outside and he led me to the chairlift, where with skis locked on we climbed aboard. This was nothing like what I had experienced at Mt. Seymour, and I began to vocalize my fears as we went higher and higher. Steve continued to reassure me, but my doubts and fears only increased. We approached what appeared to be the end of the line, which made me quite happy, until I noticed that the thing didn’t stop to let off passengers, and it was nothing like the little paddle seat at Seymour, but Steve allayed my fears of exiting. He explained about a ramp built up of snow at the end of the lift, and said, “You’ll feel that snow under your skis. Just keep your knees flexed and let yourself slide away.” 

We came to the end of the line, and I felt the snow under my skis and they took off. I was dragged off the chair, and with arms waving and poles swinging wildly I did an Inspector Clouseu impersonation down the snow ramp. Steve helped me to my feet, and pointing to another chair lift told me that we had to go higher to get to the good snow. “Higher”, I said, “you have to be crazy. I’m certainly not going any higher. I’m going down!” 

He explained that only professional skiers go down from here, but I was determined and I pushed with my poles and the tips of my skis slid over the lip. The view in front of me was a spectacular straight drop. Everything my brother had told me about shifting my weight was gone. I was heading straight down. The wind was whistling past my ears when I heard Steve scream out my name. In the split second I glanced back I lurched backward, and then with arms flailing wildly I fell forward and proceeded to do snow angels in the skiff of snow on top of the icy slope. I finally managed to skid to stop and looked back to see Steve gathering my equipment spread across the face of a mountain. 

He guided my skis and poles toward me and then with a flick of his wrist hooked my hat with the end of his ski pole and tossing it in my direction yelled, “Never and I mean never go down the hill in a straight line.” As my brother had a week earlier, he proceeded to instruct me on the rudiments of shifting my weight, there-by criss-crossing the mountain. He gave me a demonstration. It looked to be surprisingly simple, so still sitting on my backside; I clicked my boots into the ski clamps. I soon discovered that that was a huge mistake because when I tried to stand, my skis took off and I was left with no choice but to follow. By the time my body caught up to my skis, I was flying down the mountain. In one way that made me extremely happy because it meant that I would get to the bottom sooner, but in another way, it dashed any hope of me using the science of weight transfer or criss-crossing the mountain.

The wind whistled. Who needed weight transference? This was better than a wild ride at the P.N.E. But suddenly I stared ahead at ground totally devoid of snow. In the ensuing panic my right leg rushed ahead of my left forcing one ski to climb over the other. For a few seconds I was airborne, and I did a crazy impression of a helicopter with my skis as its rotor, but finally I skidded to a top.

Steve helped me to my feet and once more patiently explained the weight transference thing again. He made sense, and I was quite confident that given a chance to start properly, I would accomplish it this time. With Steve as my guide, I followed him across the mountain. I saw him make his turn with ease, and I followed, but as I attempted transferring my weight nothing happened. I kept travelling across the slope. I looked at the fast approaching snow bank trying to transfer my weight again, but still nothing happened and the snow bank stopped any forward motion. 

As I pulled my head out of the snow I heard laughter, and Steve said, “I’m sorry, Len I shouldn’t laugh, but you looked so funny.” I brushed snow off my face and glasses, and then reached into the largest of the three holes to extract my hat. Controlling his mirth, Steve again explained how to shift my weight to make the turn, and after many more disasters it finally worked. Back and forth I went shifting and turning, shifting and turning, shifting until suddenly my mind went blank. I was going straight down again. I went faster and faster, and decided to heck with the slow method; I just crouched down and enjoyed the ride. I was flying, the wind was whistling, but suddenly there was huge grey rock flying towards me. I turned, but my weight didn’t transfer, and for about the twentieth time, I lay in a crumpled heap. 

A very concerned Steve leaned over me and asked, “Are you okay, Len?” Wiggling my toes and fingers, I looked up at him and said, “Everything moves, but I’m finished.” “What do you mean, you’re finished?” I said, “I mean I’m not skiing, I’m walking!” I picked up my skis and poles, and throwing them over my shoulder clumped away.